Margot and the Armada Medal

Inside this velvet pouch

Is a medal – a memento mori

To salve the loss of someone dear.

When I hold it in my palm

I am a child again

Riding the funicular with foraged tickets

My hand is warm in hers.

As we descend, ascend and repeat again

The cars draw level and I hold my breath.  Mesmerised.

When I hold it in my palm

I remember the last visit.

There is no fire

Its absence makes the house feel chill

The radio tuned, or not

Is strangely silent.

I realise there will be no drawing today

No return for me, now Margot’s gone away.

When I hold it in my palm

I see her once again and my mind

Brims with memories

After all this time, she still imbues encouragement and calm.

The face on the medal

Rubbed to a soft sheen

Holds me in her gaze

Just one of many she has seen across the years

I am transported.  I am safe.

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